So I thought, if you could not come to Mille Mots, I would send Mille Mots to you. Please accept this little drawing, monsieur. It was done with the utmost expression.
Sincerely,
Miss Clare Ross
Tucked into the envelope, folded into thirds, was the sketch she’d been working on the day I found her out under the chestnut tree. Mille Mots, leaning out over the river, with those wild tangles of roses climbing the walls. I leaned to the paper, convinced I could smell them. It was a hesitant sketch, the lines faint and nervous, but it showed promise. She had a good sense of perspective—that much I could tell—and a sure hand. I wished Papa could see it. Though I’d gone weeks before without coming home, I suddenly wanted to be nowhere but.
I washed and changed into a fresh shirt. I was due at the Café du Champion by half past five, while the tourists were still lingering over their Beaujolais, but before the students and laborers arrived. Between serving, I earned extra tips sketching the patrons tucked in at their tables with carafes and good conversation. Several glasses in, most were willing to buy the commemoration of their holiday.
It was a busy evening, with plates from the kitchen, refilled glasses, and many crossed fingers that I was far enough from École Normale Supérieure to avoid seeing any of my classmates. At the end of the evening, over a dish of ragoût, I scribbled a response on a cognac-spattered sheet of drawing paper, my last.
Mademoiselle,
I’ve never gotten more than a note or two from Maman and the occasional cramped letter from my grand-mère in Aix. As yours doesn’t include a treatise on your current health, a reminiscence on how things used to be better a generation ago, or a reminder to wear clean socks, it is already magnitudes more interesting. And to come with such an expressive sketch, I should really feel honored.
I truly do, you know. I remember how reluctant you were to show your sketchbook, how precious your drawings are to you. That you trust me, mademoiselle, it means much.
It’s been raining here as well, but I’ve hardly noticed. I’m only outside when passing from my study turne at the university to my job at the café then back to my uncle’s apartment to sleep. If I disregard the latter, sometimes there’s a spare corner of time for tennis. There’s a German student here, who I tutor in English, and he’s as mad for tennis as I am. Sometimes we’ll have a “lesson” across the net. He can now swear in three languages.
Well, I have a theme due for which I am woefully underprepared. If only I’d spent more time reading Callisthenes and less time accidentally discovering salacious paintings, I might be better prepared….
Forgive me, I’ve had too much serious reading this week and too little sleep. And yet, once more into the breach!
Thank you, truly, for the sketch.
Luc René Rieulle Crépet
I posted it on my way back to the university, along with a brief note to Papa. The demoiselle, she has talent in drawing. Papa, can you teach her the way you taught me? That stack of books on my desk somehow didn’t seem so towering the rest of the weekend.
